Little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.

...she still cannot resist looking out the window every couple of minutes. The sound of a passing truck causes her to glance away. Even if there is no sound, the weight of a hundred seconds always turns her head.

Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of ‘not knowing.

He [Zampano] probably would of insisted on corrections and edits, he was his own harshest critic, but I've come to believe errors, especially written errors, are often the only markers left by a solitary life: to sacrifice them is to lose the angels of personality, the riddle of a soul. In this case a very old soul. A very old riddle.

One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.

Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.